


classic kind of crazy

by ashers_kiss



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 10:24:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10637934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashers_kiss/pseuds/ashers_kiss
Summary: Peter’s meticulous in taking her apart, like he is with near everything else he does in life.  It’s got its charm, Beverley has to admit, especially when it leaves her breathless, shaking.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Poetry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poetry/gifts).



> Hi, [Poetry](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Poetry)! I tried to combine a few of the things you asked for, but I'm not sure how well they came across. Possibly due to this being the first time I've ever tried to write either of these two, and certainly the first time I've ever gone anywhere near Beverley's pov. I hope I pulled it off enough that it works for you and you enjoy this.
> 
> Also, um, apologies to all, I'm Scottish, and London voices apparently _do not_ come easily to me (unless they're formal and a little posh, and okay, a) I read too much Enid Blyton as a kid, and b) I should've gone with Nightingale).
> 
> Biggest thanks as always to S., for encouragement, but also mostly for getting me into this mess in the first place. ♥
> 
> Title from [Electric Lady](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LPFgBCUBMYk) by Janelle Monáe.

Part of the problem with Peter, Beverley thinks, it that he’s got no idea just how good he _is_.

She runs a hand over his head, lets his hair tickle her palm until she shivers, and when he rolls his eyes up to her, she _grins_ ; if nothing else, he looks damn good between her legs. He narrows his eyes and runs his tongue over a particular _spot_ that has her shuddering, arching, and no, she thinks, even though he already looks too smug, no, he is _definitely_ just as good with his mouth there as he is with it the rest of the time.

Probably better, really. Less likely to get him in trouble.

Peter shuffles a little on his knees, the couch squeaking. There are better places to be doing this than his bloody man cave – if there’s one thing she misses about Herefordshire (and there’s a few, actually, though she isn’t telling Peter that), it’s the bed that was all _theirs_ , no sisters lurking or ancient treaties hanging over their heads.

On the flipside, there’s worst things than the sunlight pouring in, lighting up the colour in Peter’s hair, the ripple of muscle across his back, his arms. So Beverley settles herself further into the cushions and hooks a leg over Peter’s hip, digs a heel into the meat of his back; the _noise_ he makes as she opens up further underneath him is worth a hell of a lot more than a squeaky couch. (It doesn’t hurt she and Molly have…an _agreement_ , for times like this. One of these days, Beverley’s going to figure out how to speak fae, and they’re going to have _fun_.)

Hands slide reverent over her thighs, her hips, like he can’t _not_ touch, like he can’t keep still – it’s one of Beverley’s favourite things about him, really. “Peter,” she says, and again, and again, and again until she’s not really saying anything, she’s just making noises, but who’d blame her, because that’s Peter’s too damned clever, too quick tongue pressed against her clit, flickering as he sucks, and there’s only so much a girl can _take_.

“I swear to God,” she says – thinks she says, who the hell knows anymore – free hand twisted up to tangle in her own hair, because she needs _something_. “I swear to _God_ , Peter – ”

“Are you even allowed to do that?” Peter asks, pulling back just enough that the words ghost cold over her, making her shiver. (She bets he planned that, too.)

The worst part isn’t even that they’ve had this conversation before, or even the curl of Peter’s fucking _mouth_ , still shining and swollen – nope, the worst part is that, behind the taunt, Beverley can see the damned _curiosity_ in his eyes, tucked in the corner of that smile. Because apparently he wasn’t satisfied with her pulling a pillow over her head last time, her, “I don’t fucking _know_ , Peter, got the fuck to sleep,” muffled with lime green cotton. (She’d heard him pouting, and she’d ignored him, oh, she’d _known_ that was going to come back to bite her.) 

Beverley drags him back in with a growl, fingers flexing on the back of his neck, and he laughs as he returns to her, the sound vibrating through her until she shifts her hips closer and scratches nails through his hair. Peter moans, shuddering, going slack for a moment, and Beverley grins sharp up at the ceiling. “Keep that up,” she promises, lets the river flow into her voice, rich and low, and Peter pulls back to breath unsteady against her thigh, head bowed and forehead pressed to her skin, “and I might forgive you for it.”

“Whatever you say,” Peter mutters, breathless enough Beverley’s own catches in her chest.

Peter’s meticulous in taking her apart, like he is with near everything else he does in life. It’s got its charm, Beverley has to admit, especially when it leaves her breathless, shaking as he lets teeth catch, as he presses closer and _deeper_ , making approving little hums and sighs that weave together like a symphony, a different kind of magic that has her falling to bits, fingers tangling in her braids just for something to hold on to, to _pull_. Peter glances up at her, and she can _feel_ his smile against her, sharp as her own.

It’d be enough to send anyone crashing, really.

She floats back to herself feeling…pretty fucking great, actually. She stretches, lets her toes curls; her thighs burn and her neck aches, sweet trickles still trembling through her, but it’s _good_. She could sleep – she could eat, she could _swim_ , or she could stay right here for the foreseeable, which sounds – 

It’s only then, as her senses slowly shift themselves back into place, that she realises there’s only _one_ hand curled over her knee, that she registers the high little noises Peter’s making, the tiny puffs of air against her skin as he pants. “Hey,” she says; it comes out rusty, and it’s annoyance more than anything else that has her flooding power when she says it again. Peter’s little gasps stretch out into a long moan – anyone else would’ve cowered, or come, and there’s pride somewhere in there, in her gut or her spleen or somewhere nebulous like that – but his hips still, and his hand comes back to her, tucks in sticky against her waist. He lifts himself up and tucks his face into her throat. Beverley lets him breathe unsteady for a few minutes before working a hand under his chin and lifting him up to meet her eyes.

He’s got that pinched look he thinks he never makes, worse than when work’s getting to him, but his eyes are still blown wide. It’s kind of nice to see, actually, that he’s not _completely_ immune to her. “Not fair,” he says, low and rough like a storm coming.

Beverley snorts, shakes him a little for good measure. “We had a deal.”

Peter doesn’t wince, but he wants to. He twitches instead, like her voice still sends something racing down his spine, and his cock drags thick and hot against her hip. _“Bev – ”_

She lifts both hands to cup his face, pull him closer to her. “Make it up to me,” she says, lets it roll across both their skins, and kisses the laugh right out of his mouth. 

After, when they’re both sticky, they lie there a while, Peter pressing kisses to her collarbone while she runs fingertips down his spine and manages not to feel too soppy about it. Then she pokes him in the leg with her toes. “Go see what Molly left, will you? I’m starved.”

Peter grumbles, extricating himself from all the ways they’re tangled together (still so gentle, though, so _careful_ , and he doesn’t even notice) and pushing to his feet. “Sometimes I think you only want me for the free food,” he mutters. Beverley stretches, languid, tossing her head so her braids slide off her shoulder and her chin lifts _just so_ , and gives him her most content smile. Peter’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second before narrowing, and she laughs.


End file.
